Guardian Angel
by aCupofJo
Summary: Saving a life is always going to changes yours as well but when you save the one life that weren't meant to, it will change everything. Content & rating may vary, contains language, gore, suggestive themes, mind-altering substances, and eventual smut. Faberry, AU-verse.
1. Chapter I: Do You Regret It?

_**Chapter I: Do You Regret ****It****?**_

* * *

New York is notorious for crime. It is the most populated, most coveted city in the nation, teeming with life, organic and artificial. Not a moment in this concrete jungle is quiet or mundane. It's no wonder it is called "The City That Never Sleeps". If you blink, you will literally miss something.

In some cases, blinking won't just cause you to miss something. It'll change your life.

Friday night. Best day of the week, when teenagers flood the nightlife with fresh adrenaline due to the relief of no school and most people get a break from their jobs to roam the sidewalks and spend time out with friends or family, if they're lucky they stuck around to live somewhere in the city. But with this extra hustle and bustle also means that the chances of scoring a taxi is slim to none.

Stepping out of the presigious building that houses none other than Broadway, Rachel Berry takes a breath of what she deems fresh air (though it might be a little polluted due to the products of a city and the constant traffic, not to mention the sketchy, greasy hot dog stands with vendors that fit the profile of picks-their-nose-and-doesn't-wash-their-hands.) Slinging her purse straps over her shoulder, she heads in the general direction of her loft, one eye out for a vacant cab if the opportunity to snag one arises. In the meantime, she pulls out her phone, checking her multiple emails and texts and sorting through them (she still likes things to be organized and puts all her emails she needs to open later in labeled folders. Some habits die hard.) She's walked this way plenty of times, after all, she has lived in the city since she could ditch the little backwater town in Ohio, which was at the crisp age of 18, and climb her way onto the bright lights and stage. Now 22, she has just finished her last showing of her play, Monday making its way with a new audition for a new play that she plans on stealing the lead role for again. Of course there is competition, but there's little Rachel Berry can't handle.

Fortunately, that includes saving a life.

For some odd reason, be it fate, she decides to take that dark, dank alleyway she has always tried to avoid if she could, but is a clear cut across a couple blocks that would lessen the time and walk to her loft. She pauses at the mouth of the alley, the light of her phone illuminating her ponderous features as she battles with herself if she should stick to her beliefs and never trust a place like that or risk it, just this once. The thrill of the stage, of the audience, of acting and singing varies a lot from the thrill of experiencing something completely new, going against the norm, even it is something as trivial as a simple alley. Looking past the fire escapes that crawl up either side of the two buildings, the Dumpsters and trash cans, and the manhole that leaks steam, she can see the next street glaring with light, just barely making out pedestrians on the other side as they stroll by. It can't be that bad. What's the worse that could happen if after four years, she hasn't even witnessed someone else getting mugged, let alone her?

Deciding the whole walk through will be quicker if she continues to read her opened email, she casts her dark eyes down and boldly turns on her heel, heading into the alleyway. It's surprising how much after a few steps life is muffled after all the noise she's grown accustomed to hearing constantly. Now she can clearly hear the hissing of the manhole with its wafting steam. She hears a rustle and then the wet pads of feet as a stray cat skitters past in the edge of her vision, but she continues on. She can feel her heart hammering in her chest, the dark enclosing the closer to the middle of the alley she reaches, and her heels click dully on the damp concrete, echoing in her ears. She notices her thumb is shaking as she scrolls the email up to read the last of it. She doesn't quite feel afraid but more... aware than usual. Maybe after this first time through, she could learn to trust this shortcut after all and use it more often.

A door bursts open, swinging completely open and cracking against the brick wall. A wide shaft of harsh, bright light spills into the alleyway, and a man dressed in complete black, ski-mask and all, creates looming shadows with his figure as he darts out in the light, a rucksack over one shoulder and appearing to carry quite the load. He turns to Rachel, taking note of her, and with his left hand, pulls out a butterfly knife, flicking the long blade open as if the petrified starlet would actually attempt an attack. On the contrary, she is rooted to the spot, fear coursing pure and raw through her being. Her eyes are wide, her phone clutched to her chest in some semblance of protecting herself, and sharp breaths escape her dry lips and mouth. She can't think, she can't comprehend this man before her, and it seems much longer than it really is, but the man is suddenly preoccupied once more with another figure in the doorway of the building, its stature blocking most of the light now but not enough to conceal the gun in hand.

A deafening fire rings through the alleyway, amplified by the accoustics of the narrow passage and its bricks. Rachel starts, shock riddling her body now as the masked man crumples backwards, falling onto his back, the rucksack tossed free of his hand. The man doesn't move on the ground and the figure, also identified as a man, steps from the doorway, only stooping by the burglar to grab the rucksack, spit on the body and walk back inside with no qualms about potentially killing a person. He doesn't even look at Rachel.

For some reason, Rachel finds the motivation, the drive, the courage to drop her purse to the ground as well as her knees beside the masked man. She looks up at one end of the alley, expecting, hoping, to see someone, perhaps paramedics, rushing down to meet her and help her take care of this wounded man. She even glances back the way she came, suddenly aware that the only real noise in the alley now is her sharp, loud gasps that pass as breathing. No one seems to really notice anything has occurred and there is definitely no one coming to help her save this dying man. With nothing else to do, she taps 911 into her phone, calls, sets on speaker, and places it on the ground beside her as she struggles to remember the basics of CPR. Grabbing the mask, she peels it off, revealing a rather rugged face and dark hair. If she saw him on the street, she would have found him attractive. His eyes are closed and he rather looks like he is sleeping, if not for the apparent bullet in his chest and the blood dripping onto the concrete.

"911, what is your emergency?" a calm but quick woman's voice says through her phone, ricocheting off the alley walls.

"Yes, hi, someone has been shot!" Rachel strangles out, looking over the man for something to do next, her hands hovering above him without knowing what to really do with them.

"Are you with the victim now?" the woman asks, her voice more urgent now.

"Yes, I'm the only one here!" Rachel says, panic rising like bile in her throat.

"Ma'am, you need to stabilize the victim until an ambulance arrives. Can you tell me where you are?"

"Uh, I—" Rachel glances around but she can't decipher anything that'll tell her where she is exactly. She feels tears in her eyes. "I don't know where I am. I'm in some alleyway, near Broadway, that's all I know!"

"That's alright, ma'am, that is specific enough that we can now follow the coordinates of your cellphone to your location," the woman assures. "Now, I need you to remain calm for me. I'm going to stay on the phone with you until the ambulance arrives, okay? Ma'am, do you know CPR?"

"No, no, I don't," Rachel stutters out, closing her eyes briefly and trying to regulate her breathing if she wants to remain calm enough to stabilize this man.

"That's okay, just follow my instructions. I need you to place one hand on the victim's forehead and two fingers under their chin, to lift their head up and open their airway. Can you do that?"

"Yes, I think," Rachel replies dumbly, doing as instructed. Her hands shake as she places them in the appropriate positions and she tilts the lolling man's head back, so that he looks more like he is staring at the sky, if his eyes were open. "Okay, I have his airway open, what do I do now?"

"You need to open his mouth and place your ear close enough to tell if he is breathing," the woman instructs, her words articulate and firm.

Rachel ducks her head down, and in the process of turning her head to hear if the man is breathing, she sees the way the light reflects off the shiny patch of liquid gathered in the center of his chest where he has been shot. It sickens her and she remembers the man pulling out his knife like he might just attack Rachel if she got in his way, but that alone isn't enough to stop what she is doing. No matter who they are, no person deserves to die alone in an alleyway, when most burglars are stealing just to get by.

"He's not breathing," Rachel murmurs, more to affirm it for herself. The man's chest isn't moving, she doesn't hear even a wheeze, or feel warmth against her cheek. She sits up, shaking herself, and then repeats, louder this time, "He isn't breathing."

"Okay, what I need you to do now, ma'am, is to place your mouth over his and breathe two strong breaths into his lungs, with a second-long interval in between," the woman explains. "Can you do this for me?"

"Yeah, okay," Rachel says. She feels like she is in a daze now, just doing what she is being told to do. She guesses it's the surprise and shock of witnessing something as grotesque and sudden for the first time that is finally numbing her, but she doesn't dwell on it. Placing her mouth over his, she pushes breath into him, taking a breath in between. When she pushes in the second breath, she gets a jolt of relief to just see the man's chest fall after rising, like he might be breathing.

"Next, place your left hand flat against the center of the victim's chest with your right hand on top. Lace your fingers together, keeping your left hand flat. You need to be kneeling over them, and while keeping your arms straight and using all of your weight, perform thirty chest compressions. Can you do that?"

"I think so, yeah," Rachel replies. Licking her dried lips, she leans over the man, placing her hands as instructed. The gunshot wound is just below the center of his chest but she can feel the warm liquid moving down to where her hands are pressing, just beneath his thick shirt. Ignoring the feel of wet fabric against her bare hands, she puts weight onto her locked arms. Bracing herself, mentally and physically, she forces herself to begin compressions, counting aloud with the woman on the phone, who does so to make sure Rachel doesn't feel alone. Once she reaches thirty, she's told to give two more rescue breaths and start another compression cycle. The man's chest rises and falls with each breath but not on his own. She feels the panic roiling in her stomach as she shoves down on his chest, no longer counting as the woman does for her.

"Come on," she whines beneath her breath, fresh tears stinging her eyes. "Breathe. Just _breathe_."

"Ma'am, I need you to check for a pulse. Do you know where to look on the victim's neck for a pulse?"

"Oh, yes I do!" Only knowing this from counting how many beats per minute during her exercises, she quickly places two fingers in the dip of his throat. At first she feels nothing and she does start crying, believing this man is really dead, but then she notices that she is pressing too hard. Releasing some of the pressure, she feels a faint beat pulsate beneath the skin of her fingertips. He's still alive. He's still there. He just needs to breathe.

"There's a pulse!" Rachel says, and without being told, lifts the man's head up again and gives two more rescue breaths. Counting aloud again, she starts compressions. The woman on the phone picks up with her, relieving Rachel that she is still indeed with her. Around twenty compressions, she realizes the ache in her arms, in the shortness of her own breath. She thought this wouldn't be as hard; it actually seems pretty easy on TV or in movies. In reality, she can feel a dull discomfort in her lower back and the strain in the muscles of her arms. Still, she doesn't relent and the pattern of CPR is embedded in her brain now. She goes through the motions without being told and she even forgets that an ambulance has already been sent until she hears the sirens and they stop at the mouth of the alley facing her, its blare echoing against the bricks. Even when she hears the gourney rattling down the cement, the EMT's boots slapping the puddles here and there as they hurry over, Rachel continues.

"You can stop now," a male EMT instructs. With the last compression, huffing out "thirty!" Rachel leans back on her haunches. The EMT moves forward, lifting the man's head and ducking his own to check for signs of breathing. After several moments, the EMT doesn't perform the two rescue breaths and Rachel is about to ask why he isn't providing the care this man desperately needs. The question dies on her lips when she looks down to see the man's chest rising and falling, just barely, but of his own accord.

"You did amazing," the EMT assures with a quick smile. With the help of another, Rachel stands and steps aside to let the medical practioners take over. A new wave of shock washes over her as she realizes she has successfully performed CPR on a man and got him to breathe again. Even if the night isn't particularly cold and she is wearing a small leather jacket, a shiver rolls through her and she wraps her arms around herself, watching with new-found appreciation as the EMTs have managed to get the man onto a the gourney and begins to roll him away. The first EMT faces Rachel. He sees her shivering and shrugs off his large EMT coat, placing it around her shoulders.

"Would you like to accompany us to the hospital so you can be there when he wakes up?" the EMT asks, already guiding Rachel down the alley towards the ambulance. She looks forward and sees the two doors in the back open, and the other EMTs counting before hoisting the gourney up, folding the legs underneath and sliding the man inside. Rachel nods silently and the EMT guides her at a more brisk pace to the back of the ambulance where he assists her up. He climbs in himself and the ambulance starts driving even before he slams the doors shut.

Rachel can hear the sirens start again but they aren't nearly as loud as they were in the alley. She holds the lapels of the EMT's jacket closer to her chest, seeking the warmth she seems to need, and watches as the two work with the man on the gourney, inserting an IV and drip. The other EMT pulls out a scalpel and uses it to cut apart the man's black sweater, revealing the severity of the damage from the gunshot. But rather than gasping and staring at the man's chest, Rachel stares at the scalpel, thinking back once more the butterfly knife. She knows if it were anyone else that chanced upon this event, if anyone else watched this burglar pull the knife out on them, ready to attack, they would not have saved his life. They would have watched him get shot by the other man he stole from and then run away. But Rachel couldn't find it in herself to be so heartless, so emotionless. She just couldn't let this man die.

* * *

Hospitals have never been her favorite place. She never goes to them often but she did have to once during one of her first plays, when she twisted her ankle during a dance rehearsal and they suspected a fracture when it was just nasty bruising and a nice sprain. That stay was much shorter.

Twirling a wooden stick to churn the creamer into her coffee, Rachel turns to walk back down the hallway to the man's room. The EMT has been by since to retrieve his jacket, but he thanked her again for her services and complimented on "what a generous heart you have to help save this man's life." It felt nice to hear it from someone else, to solidify her beliefs that she was one of very few people to do something as saving the life of a man who could of potentially killed you themself.

Stepping back into the room, she says hello to the doctor who returns hourly for a check-up and sits down in her seat she pulled up beside the man's bed. She once again looks over the multiple machines and all the tubes they have plugged into him. His heart rate monitor bleats softly, recording his strong heart. They have already performed a minor surgery to remove the bullet and have luckily reported that the internal damage is clean and will heal faster and better than had the bullet actually shattered or hit a major artery. He now wears the hospital issued attire but they don't cover arms and Rachel can make out the faint stain of blood on the inside of his arm if she looks close enough. Looking down at her hands around her cup, she can't see the blood, having already washed her hands numerous times, but she can almost feel the stain of it in her fingerprints. She'll carry this with her for the rest of her life.

"Ms. Berry?" a woman's voice asks. Looking up from contemplating her hands, she is met with the visage of a beautiful woman as she steps cautiously into the room, as if asking permission to enter. The woman is about 5'6'', with long blonde hair past her shoulders and brilliant hazel eyes. Her fair skin holds no mars and she wears a dark pair of form-fitting jeans, a plain gray v-neck shirt, and a brown leather jacket. She holds herself with a sort of elegance yet with authority, like she has a purpose in just standing within the door of the hospital room. Her eyes search Rachel's face, and for a moment, she believes she saw a sort of flash of recognition in those intriguing eyes before disappearing altogether.

"Yes?" Rachel finds her voice and replies. She finds herself standing, needing to face this woman. She has never seen, heard, or met this woman in her life, yet, something about her is alluring. Maybe she's just really attractive. Since arriving to New York, Rachel has been able to fully be herself and that includes being the complete people-person she is, including her attraction to both men and women. She has had an experience or two with each gender, nothing to obtain the title of a "slut" if she were still going to use high-school terms, but she knows when she is attracted to a woman and she can't tell if it really is that this woman is gorgeous or if there is something else drawing her to the blonde.

The blonde nods and strides around the bed, facing Rachel. She drags the other chair over to the side of the bed with enough space for leg room, and seats herself, making herself comfortable. Rachel gives her a puzzled expression and slowly sits down, taking the first drink of her coffee. The woman doesn't appear to notice the look on Rachel's face and reclines in her chair, attention on the man in the bed. A humorless smile comes to the blonde's lips then, and she would appear even more attractive if she didn't seem melancholic just by watching the sleeping burglar. Each moment becomes more and more confusing for Rachel and she takes another drink to wetten her mouth before she speaks.

"I'm sorry, but who are you?" Rachel leans forward on her knees, eyes on the blonde.

"That isn't important right now," the woman replies evenly. Her eyes gaze at the man before surprisingly snapping to meet Rachel's chocolate brown. A sort of spark sizzles between them, or at least Rachel believes it's mutual, and then that hazel is back on the man, almost as if she is... analyzing his slumbering state.

"Then may I know what you are doing here?" Rachel pushes. "Are you a nurse? Doctor? Officer?"

The woman chuckles and doesn't bother to look back at Rachel again. "Do I look like any of those professions?"

"Not exactly," Rachel mutters. She decides then that the ache in her lower back is too much to be leaning forward with and she sits back with a sigh, taking another drink of her coffee.

"Are you hurt?" the woman asks abruptly. Looking up, she finds eye contact again and is further perplexed.

"Not exactly," Rachel admits, shrugging a shoulder, which serves to remind her of her exertion in her arms. "I just ache. I've never performed CPR before. I've never saved a life before either."

"You did save this man's life," the woman says and Rachel can't tell if the woman is implying a question, a statement, or confirming it for Rachel. What the hell is going on? Who is this woman? "Did you know this man is a thief?"

The question catches Rachel off guard and she blinks. She glances at the man in the bed, with his tousled dark hair and peaceful, mature features, and then to his chest, where she imagines the stitches in his chest from the bullet wound.

"Yes, I do," Rachel says confidently. "That doesn't mean he should die. He was just a burglar. He could've been stealing something just so he could make some money to buy something to eat."

"Then you believe in the saying 'desperate times call for desperate measures'?" the woman asks, attention back to Rachel once more but with an air of interrogating someone. Maybe this woman was a detective. They wear leather jackets, right? She could even have a pair of Aviators in one of her jacket pockets.

"I suppose so," Rachel agrees. "I don't necessarily apply that to myself but I may have had a time or two back in my youth where I definitely could have done something 'desperate'. Not as desperate as stealing or shooting someone."

"Are you also aware this man is a murderer?" the woman says and this question strikes Rachel silent. A murderer? He couldn't be a murderer... could he? Now that she thinks about it, this man was quick to pull his knife out on her just by noticing she happened to be walking by. What if that man in the doorway hadn't shot this man? Would this man have stabbed her and left her to die, unlike what she has done for him?

"No, but how could you know?" Rachel fires back. This woman is bothing interesting and a little irritating. She seems to regard herself with a higher purpose, like she is all-knowing.

"I am someone who tends to know these sorts of things," the woman replies, further scratching that annoying itch with Rachel. What she says next just appalls her. "I also know you would have died tonight if the roles were reversed."

"How are you so sure this man would have killed me?" Rachel nearly shouts, on her feet again. She has to move to set the coffee on the little nightstand beside all the machinery or else she'll spill it everywhere, but she suspects the break in her angry character will make her appear less intimidating. When she looks back at the woman, she hasn't even moved in her seat. She watches Rachel with a completely blank face. She is serious about what she said. It isn't some assumption on her part. She _is _someone who tends to know these sorts of things and she knows Rachel would have been killed tonight had this man not be shot. She would have died because this man would not have saved her like she did.

"Do you regret saving him now?" the woman asks, and upon staring into her eyes, Rachel sees them harden. These questions become more and more probing, and the starlet can feel them each weighted with so much cryptic purpose, she doesn't understand. Slowly... she shakes her head.

"No, I don't," she says calmly. "He may be a robber and a murderer and he may not have saved my life or tried to get help if he stabbed me but I wouldn't be any better than him if I didn't try to save him."

The blonde continues to watch Rachel. The brunette can feel her face growing hot under the scrunity, which is very odd considering how often she is on stage in front of hundreds of people nearly every night for a week at a time, but beneath the look of this woman, she feels like she is being stripped of every layer of her being. She feels like she is being searched to the bone, to her soul, and those eyes penetrate her. However, she refuses to waver or break the eye contact. She doesn't move or hardly breathe.

Suddenly, the blonde stands. A new smile is on her lips, a small charming one.

"I will see you soon," she says, her smooth voice taking a more heartfelt lilt. She rounds the bed and leaves the room without a hesitant step or a backwards glance, and she leaves Rachel is stunned silence with her mind absolutely reeling at tonight's events.

* * *

Rachel is exhausted. It is four in the morning and she doesn't want to leave the hospital because 1.) she wants to be here when the man wakes up and she would like to have a few words with him and 2.) she wonders if the blonde will be as soon as she said she would be back. It doesn't seem likely and the nightstand beside Rachel is topped with four empty cups of coffee, each cup's bottom growing gradually dark as less and less creamer is used in favor for pure caffeine to help the brunette stay awake.

The door opens and Rachel lurches up in her seat, wanting to see the blonde. Only the doctor walks in, smiling at Rachel as she sinks back down in her chair. She watches him for the umpteenth time as he checks the man's charts and his IV drip. He writes a few things down, glances at all the machines and whatever the hell they say, and then hangs the clipboard at the end of the bed with a clang.

"He should be waking soon," the doctor announces. "His vitals are good, he seems to be quite stable, and his morphine drip will be allowing him to wane awake. An officer will be in shortly but you'll have a moment to speak with the patient."

"Thank you," Rachel says tiredly, rubbing the space between her brows. The doctor nods and leaves again. It's only a couple minutes later and an officer enters, once again causing Rachel to spin around only to be met with disappointment.

"Miss," he greets gruffly. He doesn't appear to so happy to be awake either. He rounds the bed and takes some cuffs to latch the man's right hand to the bed, and then his bed. Using actual handcuffs issued by an officer creates a different message than the restraints, if this man's bed has any at all. Looking up, Rachel sees the officer checking a notepad he's pulled from his waistband.

"Do you know this man's name?" she asks.

The officer tuts his tongue against the back of his teeth and flips a page. "Aaron Walters. He's 26." the officer glances up, almost like he is realizing Rachel saved Aaron's life, and adds with a bit more sober in her voice, "He killed his wife a few years ago. That's approximately the time he started having financial troubles and started breaking and entering to make a living."

Rachel places a hand over her mouth, feeling sick. That blonde woman was right. This man, Aaron Walters, is a murderer. He killed his wife and with breaking and entering, he is also bound to have a couple more murders on his hands as well. There is no doubt now that Rachel could have been killed tonight. As much as it disturbs her that this man would go the lengths he does now to make ends meet for him even if his life will never amount to much with all the crimes he has stacked against him, she _still _feels solid in her belief that she is right in saving his life. She thanks the officer quietly and he leaves the room with a pat on her shoulder.

It's not an hour later and Aaron stirs. He shifts his leg in bed and mumbles. Looking up from the dying light of her phone, Rachel sees his eyes open blearily. Of course he is disoriented. The last he probably remembers is getting shot and not exactly gaining consciousness since. Standing, Rachel pockets her phone and nears the railing of his bed. She looks down at his face until he really comprehends reality and his eyes land on her face, focusing.

"Where am I?" he asks, voice scratchy and unused.

"You are in a hospital," Rachel answers. "You were shot and I saved your life."

"Who are you?" he asks, gaining more and more awareness with each passing second. With it, he seems more and more dangerous, his voice still brusque even after he clears it. "Were you... were you that woman in my way? Did you bust me?"

"I wasn't in your way," Rachel tries to say, shaking her head. "You could have ran past me— I wouldn't have stopped you."

"I was shot because of _you_!" he says, furious. The bed rattles as he lurches upright. The cuffs strain as he reaches out for her. Her hand had been resting on the railing of the bed and he grabs it, his fingers course and rough as he clenches her hand to the point where she yelps in pain. He too gasps at the pain of suddenly sitting up, his other hand wanting to grab his chest where his stitches pull at his sensitive skin. His eyes screw shut before opening again, black and glinting, threatening. Rachel tries to yank her hand away but he is holding her so tightly, she feels like her skin is about to peel off. He jerks her even with the limited amount of movement, and she nearly stumbles closer as he leans forward, like the worst he could do to her is bite her.

A hand grabs her wrist. Cool fingers wrap around her skin and pulls her away like she hadn't already tried that. The momentum of the pull from Aaron's hand has Rachel nearly stumbling backwards if she didn't turn around and basically fall into the blonde's arms. The woman helps her upright, and looking up at her face in the dim lighting, she can see her hard features centered on Aaron. An alarm begins to blare from one of the machines and Rachel turns to see that with all his thrashing, Aaron has torn his IV out as well some other tubes, which would normally alert the doctors that the patient is dying. In this case, Aaron is yelling crude insults and threats and trying to get out of bed. He is swinging his legs around and when Rachel looks at his chest, she can see a little blotch of red where his stitches are. It's not surprise they would be tearing.

"Are you alright?" the woman asks. Rachel becomes acutely aware that just one of this woman's hands is on her lower back, gentle and light. Remembering her hand, Rachel lifts it into some light and can just make out the beginning of bruising across some of her fingers and the back of her hand, as well as angry red blotches where he had felt like he was pulling her skin off. The woman's other hand slides up the underside of Rachel's arm, making her shiver just slightly and hopefully not too noticeably. She holds Rachel's hand, running a thumb over one of her fingers and making her hiss at the pain it causes, when the door opens again and several nurses, a doctor, and a police officer enters.

"Ladies, step outside please," the officer advises. With her arm still around Rachel's waist, the blonde manuevers them out into the much calmer hallway, where only medical staff remain. The blonde doesn't stop there and leads Rachel down towards the little room reserved for small conferences and has the coffee machine Rachel is allowed to use to fuel herself. Pulling her inside that little room, the woman turns of the lights, shuts the door and locks it.

Rachel has so many questions she wants to ask this lady but they all tumble over each other without a chance of getting out. However, the blonde moves to the other side of the room. She takes the coffee pot and pours a cup, just one, and then turns and gestures for the chair at the table right in front of her. Deciding it best to not argue, seeing as she is so tired, Rachel moves to the said chair and sits down.

The woman hands over the cup of coffee and that small, charming smile. It's so different in contrast with the hard, almost angry expression she wore when she first saw Aaron and how he had been treating Rachel. It makes her chest tingle without something she hasn't felt since high school and still isn't exactly sure what.

"Let me see your hand," the woman says after Rachel seems to have relaxed and had half her cup of coffee. Rachel sets her cup down and lifts her left hand as the woman kneels before her. Taking her hand again, she inspects the bruising, Rachel watching her carefully the entire time. Who knew holding someone's hand could be so painful?

Out of nowhere, the blonde lifts Rachel's hand and presses her fingers to her lips. The action is so surprising, Rachel's mouth drops open. What stranger does that to another stranger? Yet, those lips glide feather-light over her hand, across the bruises and the swollen areas. She does this for a few moments, her eyes closed, and her mouth moves almost like she is murmuring something that Rachel can't quite hear. She finishes with a subtle kiss to the back of Rachel's hand, and when she slowly pulls back, Rachel is speechless as to the difference of her hand.

Not a mark. Not a bruise. Not a bit of pain as she curls and uncurls her fingers. She turns her hand over and then back before meeting the woman's intense hazel eyes.

"What the fuck?" stumbles out of Rachel's mouth before she can stop herself but there is no real scared or angry intent behind them so they aren't taken seriously.

"My name is Quinn," the blonde woman says, standing. "I am your guardian angel."

* * *

**N/A: Okay, seriously, I should be writing a chapter for _What It Takes_. Is anyone else mad at me? :s**

**So, this idea has been stuck inside my head and I just had to get it out. I can already see where it leads and I'm really excited, but this also means it's not going to be a "Part" story. It's going to become an actual chapter story. Thanks to my Part stories, however, I'm going to be named the chapters, which I haven't done before... and that bothers me. I'm really OCD. Bah.**

**Feedback is much appreciated! :-***

**-x**


	2. Chapter II: Heaven and Hell

**_Chapter II: Heaven and Hell_**

* * *

_Quinn. What a beautiful name._

_ Guardian angel—_

"You're insane," Rachel blurts out, once again unable to refrain herself. Of course, if anyone is going insane, it's Rachel. She saved a person's life that would have rather killed her than think twice about saving it with CPR, she also thought it would be a good idea to stick around to see if he would recover, then met a stranger with some bizarre philosophical complex, tried talking to the murderer after the stranger decided to leave and nearly got herself hurt, and finally, she _thought _she saw this woman heal her hand.

Looking down again, she tries to find some flaw with what has just happened. Her hand remains unblemished, no matter which way she angles it. Maybe there's just a glitch in her brain. Maybe she just needs to sleep the entire weekend. Better yet, what if she wakes up now and all of since she left Broadway was some very vivid, very explicit dream?

"Fortunately, I am not," this woman, Quinn, says with a ghost of her charming smile as she breaks Rachel's inner monologue. "Would you like me to prove it to you, that I am an angel?"

Instead of saying anything, Rachel just sinks back in her chair, hands gripping the arm rests. She watches Quinn intently, those hazel eyes glimmering in the artificial light above them. Taking Rachel's silence as a confirmation, Quinn takes a steady step backwards. She doesn't look away from Rachel, keeping complete eye contact. Though she doesn't make another move, Rachel can feel the tension in the room build, like someone is inhaling a breath and refusing to let it out, climbing and climbing. When the suspense feels like it's about to snap, in some way Rachel isn't sure how, the light flickers. At first, it's just a single flicker, those random stutters in electricity, but then there is a low crackle in one of the fixtures and they wink again. Then at different intervals, they all begin to pulsate, a light show of failing electricity filling the room. Rachel starts at the popping of a light bulb and sees the spray of sparks in her peripherial, but doesn't dare take her eyes from the woman in front of her, seemingly unaware of the blinking lights and bursting wires.

And then she sees it. At first she thinks it's just some play of the lights and the shadows they are creating but when she blinks and finally turns her gaze away from Quinn's, she realizes the very defined silhouette against the wall. Though the lights shudder incessantly now, casting gaunt features over Rachel's awed face, the silhouette remains perfectly outlined against the wall. In fact, it moves, like it breathes, and all at once the lights stop. The collective light in the room is drastically different, with several of the fixtures broken from the severe fluxation of power, but it provides enough light for Rachel to see and for her to realize that the silhouette against the wall aligns perfectly with Quinn's shadow, making it appear as though two very proud, majestic wings are spread from her shoulders in a magnificent display.

"Do you see?" Quinn asks. Her voice is lowered, reverent, but firm.

Rachel nods, seeing, but not comprehending. This woman, Quinn, really is an angel, with the wings and all. It does explain how she would know what she does about Aaron and how she has healed Rachel's bruising hand, but it just doesn't seem... _plausible_. All her life, Rachel has never encountered anything that has made her spend a second longer on the thought of the supernatural. Again, so many questions plague her but her tongue is leaden in her mouth and her eyes are burning from not blinking so long. She realizes she's also holding her breath, her lungs screaming for fresh air, and she allows herself to soak up what she had just experienced... and then exhales. The weight settles comfortably on her shoulders.

The silhouette of the wings have disappeared now and it seems Quinn deflates a little herself, like she was exerting energy to reveal this to Rachel. The tension dies down, a faint buzz of it left in the air. Quinn takes a careful step forward again, and then kneels once more before Rachel, searching her face and eyes. Each of her movements are calculated and deliberate, so as to not frighten the brunette any fruther. She doesn't say anything and doesn't touch her, just analyzes, like she is gauging Rachel's reaction. To be honest with herself, Rachel isn't sure how to react, what to feel, what to believe anymore. If angels are real, what else could be?

"I... I don't understand," Rachel mutters, shaking her head absently to emphasize her distress. For once in her life, her voice is failing her. Quinn's touches her knee, and its coolness seeps comfortingly through her jeans, though she wants to shy away from the contact.

"In due time, you will," Quinn soothes. Rachel vaguely wonders if Quinn became an angel just because of her voice, so smooth and velvety. She also wonders if she could sing, something she always wonders about people she speaks with and it seems to apply to ethreal beings as well.

Taking a deep breath, Rachel stands. Quinn's hand falls away from her knee and she ignores the little pang of loss from the contact, though just a moment ago, she was uneasy beneath it. She needs to walk, to pace, to stretch, to just get her head to wrap around all that has happened in the last near ten hours and then to prepare for what else she is sure will come.

Quinn seems to understand and stands to her full height, still watching as the short brunette licks her dry lips and begins pacing, one running through her hair and then pulling on the ends. The entire time, the blonde remains silent and it sort of irks Rachel, though she isn't exactly sure why. It could be the constant watching, like Quinn is prepared in the case that Rachel just has a mental breakdown. The possibility is real but she doesn't need some person she just met to keep her together. She has done fine these past four years on her own and that isn't about to change, _guardian _angel or not.

Everything _else _will change, apparently.

"You said guardian angel," Rachel starts, stopping several beats away and facing the other girl. "Are you specifically my guardian angel?"

"Not exactly," Quinn replies evenly. She doesn't try to close the distance. "Guardian angels are just like any other angel but interact more directly with what is universally known as 'charges', or a person or two under one angel's care. We technically aren't supposed to reveal ourselves to our charges and most charges never know within their lifetime that they have one."

"Then why did you reveal yourself to me?" Rachel interrupts before Quinn can continue. She has too many questions and she needs to start asking them or she's going to get a killer migraine.

"You... are a special case," Quinn hesitates. Rachel senses there is more to it than that but she doesn't push it. She guesses that Quinn is the kind of angel that won't be easy to persuade, which will be a real pain in the ass if she's going to have to follow her around... for however long.

"So, there _are _other angels," Rachel continues loosely, crossing her arms. The gesture bars her from Quinn, she knows this, but she feels the need to physically keep everything in so she can process it.

"We are all angels, we just have different... jobs, if you'll call it that. I look after my charges. I help them in a time of need, I am that voice of reason in the back of your mind that most just pass off as their 'conscious'. All our influence is from afar. We don't see you and you don't see us. Most angels never know what their charges look like either. It helps with keep favoritism out of the picture." Quinn talks and while she does, Rachel notices the way her full bottom lip creates a shadow over her chin, just slightly, from the scattered lights.

This is just the beginning of her laundry list of questions but she can't seem to ask another one. They all mingle together again and Rachel has to stop the spinning in her head if she wants to be able to discern what she has just been told and what she still wants to know. She presses her fingertips to her temples, hoping that age-old massage will actually work. After a minute, she looks up and she sees the fleeting expression of concern and worry on Quinn's face before she's business-like again.

Any chance of talking further is effectively ended when Quinn's attention turns towards the door. Twice, Rachel has seen a certain hardness to Quinn's features, where she appears to become angered by something and wants to argue, but this is different. It's more along the lines of hatred, furious and frightening. All thoughts fly out of her head as she too turns for the door, straining to see the cause of Quinn's dismantlement, but nothing seems to be the matter. Just then, a few sharp raps ring out on the wood, causing Rachel to jump. Quinn touches her arm in a way to convey that she should stay where she stands as the blonde passes by, towards the door.

Peeking through the blinds beside it, Quinn steps back to open the door. Just before she unlocks it, she turns back to the room. Swiping her hand through the air like a teacher would wipe off marker on a dry erase board, Rachel is speechless again when she sees the shards of broken glass and fixtures sail through the air to meld once more to their previous forms. One by one, the repaired lights flicker back on until it appears that nothing had ever happened.

Like an angel's wings overloading them and causing them to shatter.

The door opens and Rachel looks back to see the officer from earlier stepping just inside. From her profile, Quinn seems amenable, not the strange yet beautiful fury that had been on her face before. Whatever caused it obviously isn't the officer.

"Mr. Walters has been sedated," the officer says, sounding more tired than he did before. "He won't be staying in the hospital long and will be transported to prison. I wanted to thank you for your cooperation and for staying by his bedside all this time. You may leave the hospital after a few words with Detective Kers from Virginia, Mr. Walters's last resident state."

"Thank you," Rachel bids the officer. It doesn't occur to her that she has already spoken with a detective, and multiple police either. The officer nods and steps back out, leaving the door just ajar. It's then that Rachel notices the dark glower on Quinn's face again. She stands just behind the door, where anyone entering won't be able to see her unless she makes herself known. Rachel watches her, confused and maybe a bit of afraid.

The door widens slowly again and another man steps inside. Rachel barely has time to register his dark hair and bright green eyes, his attire passing for that of a detective's, before he reaches inside his jacket and pulls out the strangest looking knife Rachel has seen. When her eyes dart back up to his in order to determine what purpose he has for her, she chokes on the sight of his black eyes, constrasting starkly with the white of them.

The door slams shut and Quinn reaches out. Having stood behind the door allowed the black-eyed man to not notice her but he does now as she seizes the wrist of the hand holding the knife and attempts to twist his arm under. She manages to get it half-way behind his back before he catches up from being caught off-guard. He swings around, his left fist arcing for Quinn's head. Rachel screams, wanting to warn the angel, but she ducks anyways, the black-eyed man's hand crunching against the door. He hisses and swears in pain before jerking his arm away and using the momentum to swipe at Quinn. The blonde lurches backward, the knife whirring through the air where he would have slit her abdomen wide open. He reverses the momentum, aiming for her head, and she leans back, the knife glinting in the luminescent light before her face. While his arm is pulled back from the attack, she lunges. She grabs his arm by the elbow so it stays barred across his own torso, and then rears back her own fist. It connects solidly with his nose, a horrible, muffled crunching reaching Rachel with a jolt. The black-eyed man grunts, staggering backwards, but where any other person would grab their nose as blood leaks in ribbons down their lips and drips off their chin, this black-eyed man shrugs it off.

Oh, and it could be the lighting (she should really stop blaming it), but his blood is _black_.

In the span of his time staggering from the blow, Quinn raised her hand. He advances again, and the light above them bursts with snapping sparks, conveniently falling in the man's face. He cries out in sheer pain this time, the noise disturbing to hear. He drops the strange, twisted blade and claws at his eyes, stepping backwards now, the blood smearing across his hands.

Rachel realizes she is against the counters, hands gripping the edge to keep herself from collapsing. Her legs feel weak. She watches the brawl in a mixture of surprise, fear, and awe. Somehow, each movement Quinn has made, even punching the black-eyed man in the face, has been graceful and poised, like she has practiced this many times. Her expression remains in stone, furiously beautiful. And just like she has practiced this many times, Quinn quickly takes the knife in the same forward motion of stepping into the black-eyed man's space. She grabs the man's shoulder, bracing him, and with conviction in the features of her face, she sinks the strange knife into his chest, his heart to be exact.

All noise fades from the man. His hands tremble as they fall from his face, where his eyes are charred and unrecognizable, like the sparks from the light had been magnified and seared his flesh. He gapes, blood stringing from his top lip. His knees give and he crumples onto his side. Quinn released her hold on the knife when he fell, letting it protrude from his chest. Rachel glances, stunned, at Quinn's hand, where his inky blood drips from her fingertips. She doesn't bother to shake it off. Instead, Quinn glares at the body on the carpeted floor, and Rachel can see over the table as the once black-eyed man appears to glow, like flames lick at his skin from the inside or how coals burn and dilate with heat. The same black blood also leaks from around the knife in his chest and suddenly begins to bubble, like it is being boiled. A strange hissing noise escapes the man's parted lips and it takes Rachel a moment to recognize it as hot air, like the noise that comes from a dying fire.

Unable to look any longer, Rachel turns away, covering her mouth like she fears she might vomit. She clenches her eyes shut but all it does is allow her to replay this black-eyed man's death over and over in her head. This all feels so surreal. There shouldn't angels or people that bleed black and burn from the inside out. She almost regrets saving that man's life, and she nearly gets to that point in her mind where she is telling herself she does, but can't.

That's when a lance of sharp pain shoots through her skull and she isn't thinking about _anything _anymore.

* * *

_Quinn._

Rachel bolts up in bed, sucking in a deep breath against the gasp that threatens to escape. Immediately, she wishes she never moved because there's an aching throb just above her right eyebrow that makes itself known then. Maybe she drank once she got home and last night was just some sick, very bizarre figment of her imagination.

Except it wasn't. It isn't. This isn't her bed. She never went home last night. Instead, the whole fucking world got turned upside down and she has no idea where she is.

Now she's panicking.

"Are you alright?"

Of course, leave it to the beautiful blonde angel to come sauntering into the room to confirm that everything that happened, did in fact, unfold. How she knew Rachel was awake with the door shut to the unfamiliar room she has just woken up in is beyond her.

"Fine," Rachel lies, swallowing her panic and swinging her legs off the bed. She raises a hand against her word and touches her forehead, like everyone does when they believe they could physically stop a headache.

"You are _now_," Quinn corrects and Rachel looks up. The blonde walks across the threshold of the small, dark room, where the only light comes from the lone window with its blinds drawn. It appears as though the sun is rising, finally.

Kneeling before Rachel, the brunette tenses. Quinn realizes this and touches Rachel's shoulder gently, a soothing gesture, before moving her hand to trace her fingertips along where her headache is focused. The skin there, Rachel realizes, is tender like a bruise, and she shies away from the contact with a wince she wishes wasn't seen.

"What the hell happened?" Rachel's curiosity gets the better of her and she has to ask. It's unlike her to use swear words, however remote. The corner of Quinn's lips upturn, as if she knows this fact.

"You blacked out after watching me kill a demon and hit your head on the edge of the counters. Gave yourself a nice gash and a concussion, but nothing I can't mend."

Quinn says this loftily, just something that happens everyday. Making coffee in the morning is something that happens everyday. Collapsing after watching a _demon _die is not.

"A _demon_?" Rachel voices with the same emphasis she heard inside her head as soon as Quinn spoke the word. Quinn by now has retracted her hands and sits on her knees beside the small bed, which should really be called a cot. "And where are we know?"

Quinn chuckles, more to herself than anything. "You ask a lot of questions."

Rachel narrows her eyes at this. "I'm _sorry _if I just realized everything I was told was not real since I was a little girl actually is, that the first life I have ever saved was someone who would want to kill me though I once imagined it would be grand and I would be given a medal that proclaimed me a hero, and that now I have woken up in a place I have _never _been to before—"

"Whoa, okay," Quinn says, holding up a hand and somehow silencing the riled brunette despite her desire to finish her speech. "I didn't say it was a bad thing. The fact that you are asking so many questions is a good thing. Are you sure you don't want to eat first? Maybe get some more sleep and go home?"

Rachel opens her mouth to decline and to demand answers to her questions, but then her mind processes "food" and her stomach tells her it has been gnawing on itself since yesterday, half-way through her last play. The thought of getting something to eat, of going home and taking a nice, long, hot shower and sleeping in her own bed without the nuisance of worrying about possible head-lice from some stranger's bed is too tempting and she snaps her mouth shut. Quinn smiles and stands, reaching out to help Rachel up, but the actress merely stands on her own and stalks from the room with no sense of direction.

In a few minutes, Rachel is sitting at a small, wobbly wooden table, scarfing down as much of Quinn's deliciously made scrambled eggs and bacon. She really needs to ask how Quinn knows what to cook so well when another questions intterupts that thought and she looks up at the blonde leaning against the counter by the stove, peering through the cracked blinds at the growing morning.

"Do angels eat?" Rachel asks as soon as most of the food is gone from her mouth. She looks down at her plate, seeing the greasy, delectable mess, and reminds herself to never let Quinn cook her meat again. She was a strict vegan in high school but since arriving to New York, she hardly had enough time to prepare anything that met those standards before she had to start her hectic day. She now sits comfortably with being a vegetarian. Now she wants to smack herself for thinking Quinn is going to always be cooking for her, let alone, sticking around much longer.

"Yes, we do," Quinn replies, breaking Rachel's reverie. "We technically don't _need _to, but we can. Some of us eat just because of the habit or for the pleasure of it."

"The habit?" Rachel questions further, chewing some more eggs. She keeps herself from thinking about murderous mother hens.

Quinn nods and shoves off the counter. She walks over and takes a seat in the only other chair at the weathered table, looking at Rachel's nearly empty plate as she seems to think.

"All angels, and demons, were once human," she begins, hands laced together atop the table. She lifts her eyes to meet Rachel's, that strange connection buzzing again and Rachel faintly wondering if it's just her again. "We lead normal lives, had friends and families, and made choices and decisions that carved the path before us. Not all humans will become an angel or a demon, only select beings. What they did in their life destines them to where they will go afterwards— Heaven or Hell."

"What happens to the humans that die and don't become either?" Rachel says, polishing off her plate and pushing it to the side. She dabs at her mouth with a napkin and wipes her hands. She feels a bit of guilt for her breakfast but really, and she checked herself, there wasn't much else in the apartment's refridgerator.

Quinn shrugs. "I'm not sure. That all depends on that human's belief. Maybe they'll stay in Heaven, watch over their loved ones until they can meet again. Maybe they'll be reincarnated, whether into another life as a human or an animal is, once again, up to their belief. As an angel, it is not up to us what happens to those souls; all that matters is the living and doing what we are meant to do."

Rachel nods, going through this in her mind. It sounds a lot more classified than she expected it to, but definitely plausible... now that she is getting herself to accept all this. Needing something to do with her hands since fraying the napkin conveyed nervousness (she isn't nervous, just... doesn't know how to feel yet), she stands and walks over to the sink, washing them beneath the spray of cold water. She thinks about the process of weeding out the right souls, who becomes an angel and who goes on. Suddenly, her mind replays the hospital conference room scene with the burning demon, and she turns off the tap, wiping her hands off on a small rag of cloth, and turns to where Quinn still sits at the table.

"What did you do with the demon's body?" It's the first straight forward question without a waver in her voice.

Something akin to anger flashes in Quinn's striking hazel before disappearing and she appears all business-like again.

"When you blacked out, I took you and the body and brought you here." She stands, her fingertips brushing the top of the table as she rounds it to enter the kitchen and lean against the counter opposite Rachel. They practically mirror each other, hands beside their hips, resting on the edge of the structure they rest against. "I... convinced the tenants to leave for the day, to not worry about their home and who might be in it, and that they will eventually forget about ever seeing us by the time they arrive back."

"How did you convince them?" She narrows her eyes slightly in suspicion. She doesn't see how Quinn could just show up at their doorstep and talk them into letting her borrow the apartment while she has two bodies slung over her shoulder, one leaking what looks like tar.

Looking a little sheepish at this, Quinn admits, "Angels have an ability that is only condoned under special circumstances. It's like manipulation, called glamoring. We can... force people to do anything we say, forget memories, even appear different in their eyes than we actually are. It is strictly enforced to only use under extreme circumstances, and _never _against our charges."

Rachel nods, silently thanking God (or whoever) that she is such a seasoned actress that she doesn't immediately give away that she is shocked. She has decided that angels are scary. If Quinn can have that kind of power over humans, the coordination and credence to slay a demon without hesitance, and has a complex that resembles premonitions, then it causes Rachel to question most things about life, including how supernatural beings like Quinn can just stand by as humanity gradually corrupts themselves and the very earth they stand on.

"I need to go home now," Rachel sighs resignedly, rubbing her hand across her forehead. The headache has subsided but her brow is still tender and she steers clear of touching it.

"Okay, I have your purse and cellphone in the living room," Quinn says, sounding a bit grateful to be leaving the apartment. Rachel follows behind, no longer bothering with being confused how or why the angel does things.

"When did you get my purse?" Rachel asks half-heartedly as she steps before the sagging coffee table and picks up her phone. As usual, there are several emails and a text that she'll have to look into later. She stows it away in her purse that she slings over her shoulder.

Another sheepish shrug and Rachel decides she doesn't want to know.

* * *

The entire cab drive home is silent. Rachel wants to ask more questions, a strange kind of frustration building inside her. She asks a question, gets an answer, and two more questions spring up. She can't seem to catch up. She has plenty more to interrogate Quinn with and she glances sidelong at the woman beside her, looking out the cab window with rapt fascination of the city.

"You look like you've never seen the city before," Rachel muses. She enjoys the depth and culture of the city but she has lived here for four years and she knows how much of it looks by now.

"It didn't look like this before," Quinn murmurs, not realizing how odd that sounds. One look at the cab drive in the rearview mirror and he glances curiously at the blonde, then at the brunette, before returning his attention to the road. As far as anyone can tell, New York has looked the same all their life. The only change would have to be through a period of time much longer than just one lifetime.

Rachel leaves it alone, saving it for another time. Eventually, the cab driver stops in front of her building and she steps out, handing a couple bills of cash and telling him to keep the change. He speeds off just like every other crazy taxi driver and she steps up the stairs with her keys in hand, relief bubbling up inside her chest for what seems like the first time in forever.

The ride up to her apartment is just as uneventful as the car ride. Quinn is complacent, almost oblivious, and it allows Rachel to really look her over. There isn't a part of Quinn that is marred. An occasional freckle colors her but not a scar or scratch can be seen on her smooth, pale skin. Her hazel eyes study the lights of the buttons, and her long blonde hair falls down to her shoulder blades in gentle waves, the kind that most women have to style every morning, though Rachel doubts Quinn has to do anything for it. She dresses in form-appreciating clothing without revealing too much, and on a second look, Rachel notices that none of that black blood from the demon so much as stains the side of her hand, what with the way she held the knife that stabbed him.

"What happened to him?" Rachel says before she can stop herself. She really needs to get a hold of that. "The demon, I mean. What did you have to do to his body?"

Quinn finally looks at her and Rachel can't tell if she looks surprised or solemn. She exhudes an air of calm and professionalism. Rachel supposes all angels must be this way, seeing as this is the first one she has met. It could just be how Quinn is.

"Like I mentioned before, all angels and demons were once human," Quinn says, looking back at the elevator doors and putting her hands in her jacket pockets. "And unless our vessels, or bodies, were destroyed, we are still in the same body we were in as humans. What happened to the demon both destroyed his spirit and body. I say spirit and not soul because soul is an essence of pure good, of humanity, and demons do not have that after being sent to Hell."

The elevator stops on Rachel's floor and Quinn doesn't say anything else, following as the short brunette unlocks her loft door and enters. This is familiar. A small but nice entertainment center against one wall holds a medium-sized TV, a couple musical cases sitting before the DVD player. A long couch and a coffee table sit before it. A mug and empty plate from yesterday morning sit on the table, just as she left it. Though she is paid nicely for her acting, her loft still seems bare, just a few plants or paintings here and there. The kitchen is a mess, of course, and Rachel likes to believe that her singing talent has taken away from any other skill, like cooking. A small set of stairs lead up to a loft where her bedroom lays, a room set in the back corner to act as her bathroom and closet. Really, it's an older loft and only two people could live here before the need for renovations arise, but Rachel has lived here a near three years by herself. The first year was spent saving for it.

Letting a great breath out, Rachel leaves Quinn in the main room, walking up the stairs to her bedroom. She sets her purse on a cozy reading chair beside the desk she does her studies on and plugs in her phone by the nightstand. She nearly walks to the bathroom to start her shower, but she remembers the woman downstairs and decides it would be best to let her know she can make herself at home.

"Quinn, I want to extend my home—" Rachel starts and stops, half-way down the steps.

Quinn sits on the window bench, gazing at the cover of one of Rachel's guilty pleasure reads. She knows it doesn't have much to do with the kind of lifestyle she leads but she can't help it. John Green is a genius writer and besides, she had a grandmother that died of cancer, so she can somehow relate to the tragedy of _The Fault in Our Stars_.

Looking up, Quinn offers a small smile and waves the book a little, in case Rachel didn't see it.

"Could I read this?" she asks simply.

Of course, Rachel nods, and says, "Of course. I want to extend my home to you... and apologize for my behavior." She decides then that if she is apologizing, she should at least explain what for. "I haven't been the most welcoming since your arrival and I admit, this guardian angel showing up and switching around my beliefs is hard to get accustomed to quick. I want you to know that there are no hard feelings."

A throaty chuckle come from Quinn and she looks down at the blue book, flipping open to the first page. "There is nothing to apologize for. I would be better at being a guardian angel if I ever did it before."

With nothing left to say, Rachel nods and retreats back up the stairs. As she walks into her bathroom and picks out some comfortable night clothes to change into before her much desired hot shower, she lets the fact that she is Quinn's first physical charge run through her mind.

Why does that please her so much?

* * *

Waking up the next morning is much easier. It's now Sunday. The rest of her Saturday, after her shower, was spent in a different room from the angel. She has some courses she still attends to from NYADA, the college she originally was accepted to when she came to New York. She did one lead role in a play, sang and dance and acted, and was immediately wanted for a role on Broadway. That was just the beginning of her stardom. Of course, she hasn't played the lead role for every Broadway play, but she's getting better every week she practices.

She spent her day working on her courses at her studies desk because she just wanted a break from the mayhem of the morning and previous night. It was just a span of 12 hours but it seems much longer than that, and yes, she needs a break. It was too much, too soon. Seeing the angel would serve to make her unnerved again. Quinn seemed to understand this without being told because she didn't once check on Rachel agan.

The sun falls through the looming window as she slips from bed. She stretches, her NYADA extra large shirt rising up on her thighs. Before she heads downstairs to get something to eat, she finds a pair of shorts to wear. Quinn may be a girl but she isn't comfortable with showing so much skin with her just yet... that or she doesn't know how she would react under the blonde's intense gaze if they trailed up her "impossibly long" legs.

As she walks down the steps, she is stopped for the second time half-way down. Quinn sits exactly where she saw her last, still reading. This time, it's a different book, Nicholas Sparks. _The Rescue_ sits in her long, slender fingers and her brows are drawn together in concentration as she reads. She senses Rachel's attention on her and slowly looks up from the sentence she is reading. When she sees Rachel, she smiles, closing the book with her index finger saving the spot.

"Did you read John Green already?" Rachel asks, finishing her descent down the stairs.

"I did, actually," Quinn says, moving her legs around to sit facing the main room. "It teared me up, I must say."

"It's one of my favorites," Rachel says, still looking at Quinn questioningly. She tilts her head. "Did you read the entire day?"

Quinn nods, looking down at the book in her hand. "All day and a little bit last night. I started this one as soon as I was done with Green. These men are really great writers. I wish they were around to write... nevermind."

And before Rachel could push for Quinn to continue, the blonde stands and stretches. She reaches way above her head, letting her finger pull from the pages and effectively shut the book. She at least took off her jacket and just wears her jeans and gray t-shirt... that reveals a sliver of taut skin across her lower abdomen.

Rachel looks away and walks into the kitchen, opening the refrigerator. She sighs happily, mind taken away from Quinn's stomach, as she spots her familiar arrangement of fruits and vegetables. Taking an orange and a bottle of water, and retrieving some supplement pills from the cabinet beside the refridgerator, she goes to sit at her table.

"Would you like me to make you something more?" Quinn asks as she takes the step up onto the landing Rachel's kitchen sits on.

Pushing a thumb into the malleable peel of the orange, Rachel smiles and shakes her head, "That's okay. I'm used to quick eating in the morning when I have to leave for the day. My body is already adjusted to it so I try not to change it up too much."

Quinn sits across from Rachel, sliding a hand appreciatively over the finish of the wooden table. "Do you have anything else you would like to know, now that you have slept comfortably?"

As she thinks, Rachel peels away the skin of the orange until it's bare. She tears away a section of the orange, holding the slice before her mouth and then popping it into her mouth. She has a lot of questions actually, she just doesn't know which one to voice first. Deciding with the easiest, she chews up the orange slice and takes a drink of water.

"What is the extent of your healing?"

"I can heal any wound except for decapitation of any extremity and I cannot bring the dead back to life, no matter how close the gap is," Quinn answers easily, like it's an interview for a job. It strikes Rachel that Quinn would be hired for any job on her appearance alone. She is that kind of woman, with her aristocratic features and the way she holds herself.

"Can you _sleep_?" Rachel asks this in reference to the fact that Quinn read the whole day and night. She giggles when the blonde smiles and shakes her head.

"I can, if I would like to. Again, it's more of a habit or for the pleasure of sleeping, just like eating. Angels are dead, so we don't technically need to do anything a human does."

"That includes the bathroom?" Rachel asks, smiling childishly.

"That includes the bathroom," Quinn says, chuckling. "Even when we eat, we may feel full... but it just leaves our body like energy, to be returned to the atmosphere."

"Sort of like science," Rachel jokes, eating another orange slice.

"You can say that," Quinn nods. Her smile, her actual smile instead of her charming one she has used before, is beautiful on its own. All angels must be beautiful, or at least become beautiful when they become one. Speaking of...

"What is Heaven like?" Rachel asks. She can feel the air around them somber as she says this, and she chews slowly on her orange slice as she waits for answer.

Quinn looks down at her hands laced together once more. She thinks and a fond smile comes to her lips, like she is remembering her time there, wherever it is. It may not even be above them, or Hell below them. It may just be a parallel plane to theirs, or in another galaxy altogether. Since she's met Quinn, Rachel will admit her mind has already broadened, and she is brought to think of things like this.

"Heaven is... a haven," Quinn says softly after a moment. "It's safe and comfortable and familiar the moment you arrive. You see all the people you want to see that have passed before you and you meet people you never once saw in your life because they may have lived a life before or after yours. It's happy. Heaven is whatever you want it to be."

_Heaven is whatever you want it to be._

"Thank you," Rachel surprises herself, and Quinn, with saying.

"What for?"

"For becoming my guardian angel."

* * *

**A/N: I would've liked to update sooner, but it's come to my attention that... I don't have a very long attention. Which inevitably means, I will never be quick with updates and I'M SORRY.**

**As it is, I'm developing a plot so I know where I want to take this. I'm also revising What It Takes plot, since some of original ideas for that story have been lost and is the reason why it hasn't been updated in a while. I apologize.**

**Anyways, I hope you enjoy so far, and I greatly appreciate your feedback!**

**-x**


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